


glorious

by wearethewitches



Series: there's no knowing where you'll be swept off to [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archetypes, Dark One Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Dealfic, Dimension Travel, Dyslexia, Fairy Tale Retellings, Gen, Hearts, Hunters & Hunting, Portals, Rituals, The Dark Castle (Once Upon a Time), Time Travel, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: canon divergent;"My name is Rumplestiltskin and yours will be Robin Hood, one day. Remember that, regardless of what will come to be. Your path is your own and so are your choices. The brand will burn with magic a day before the portal will arrive to draw you home.”-or, how Sir Roland of Locksley becomes a vassal of the Dark One in a deal to save his mother and becomes a new person entirely.





	glorious

**PART ONE**

The Dark Castle looks abandoned, at first glance. The trellises in the garden are bare and the flowerbeds, while many of the glass windows are boarded – from the inside and out. Making his way through the asymmetrical garden, Sir Roland of Locksley approaches the daunting front doors, intimately aware that the Dark Castle is home to the Dark One.

He hesitates after climbing the front stairs, his hand poised to knock.  _Should I do this? What kind of price will there be to pay, if he can heal my mother? She needs to live – she is the only thing holding Locksley together._

Before Roland can make his mind up, though, the doors creak open, revealing a dim entrance hall. Roland startles, eyes scanning the darkness.

“…hello? Dark One?”

“ _I’m upstairs!_ ” he hears a call, before a giggle reverberates through the hall, chilling him to the bone. Roland swallows, before stepping inside, not expecting the doors to slam closed behind him.

Candle-flame flickers high above him in the dusty chandeliers, barely half lit, many reduced to less than drippings. Roland makes his way across the entrance hall, up the curved marble staircase that far exceeds the wealth of Locksley province and into the dining hall where the Dark One sits propped up in front of the fire, sipping a cup of tea.

“Welcome to the Dark Castle, dear sir!” the magician grins with pointed teeth, giggling to himself hard enough that his shoulders shake. He sets his tea aside, claws dragging along the velvet arms of his chair. “What favour do you seek from the legendary Dark One?”

“Infamous,” Roland can’t help but say, cringing immediately, “I mean- my apologies-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” the Dark One doesn’t blink as he watches Roland, motioning him forwards. “Come. Sit.”

Roland grips the handle of his bow, terror coursing through him. The Dark One rolls his eyes.

“Sit, peasant. I’m in a pleasant state of mind at the moment. Unless you try to shoot me, you won’t be able to anger me – not today,” the Dark One smiles and Roland hesitates…but sits.

_Mother is more important than any fear I feel._

“I came here to ask for your help, Dark One,” Roland says, back straight, voice serious – the effect being slightly ruined by the crack in his voice.

The Dark One’s lip twitches. “Yes, most do. What do you ask of me? What do you offer in return?”

“I am Sir Roland of Locksley, an independent province to the west. We pay taxes to the White Kingdom for protection against magical beasts who make their home in the Enchanted Forest near us.”

“And they have not protected you?” the Dark One casts a guess.

“We have had no need of their services,” Roland shakes his head. “I am the son of the Lady of Locksley. Her only son. My mother is deathly ill and I- I am not ready to rule. I am a knight and have dedicated myself to serving my people, but I do not know how to rule from a seat – and in any case, I am not old enough. My uncle will become the Lord of Locksley before I do.”

“How old do you have to be to take your place as Lord?” the Dark One leans forwards, obviously intrigued.

“Twenty-two,” Roland reveals. “I am but fifteen. I come to ask for her healing and continued health.”

“ _Continued,_  you say? That would increase the price in our transaction, young knight,” the Dark One points with a shimmering, scaled finger.

Roland swallows, “Then- for a few years, at least? Please.”

“Death is natural,” the Dark One says quietly –  _gently._  “I may be able to heal your mother, but death is not something to be stayed for long. What if there were an accident? A murder? Would you hold me responsible for these things, while she lived from my magic?”

“…no, but perhaps we can come to a- a  _specific_  arrangement. A closed contract, for a period of some years. I do not want my mother to die from illness. I do not want her incapacitated by bad health. I want her to be able to do her duties and guide me in them, later, when my time to rule comes,” Robin says, voice getting stronger as he lays out his demands as reasonably as he can.

“Your terms are…awfully small-minded,” the Dark One says eventually, squinting at him. “Why not ask for more protection? I  _could_  protect her from being murdered by unsavoury allies.”

Robin winces. “I mean no offence, Dark One, but I do not want to go too far. That would lead me down a path, if- if not later Locksley itself. It would be a path that would have us in your debt and paying the price for using magic. Locksley is welcoming to those who practice the unseen arts, but we are of the Enchanted Forest like any else. We know the price for magic.”

The Dark One grumbles, but nods in agreement. “You’ve got a steady head. Sure you wouldn’t want to become Lord of Locksley early?”

“My uncle-”

“Fine, fine!” the Dark One slumps back in his seat rather indelicately. “What do you offer me in return?”

“I am a knight – I would offer you my bow for the duration of our deal, my services for my mother’s continued good health,” Roland offers, getting off the seat to kneel in front of the magician, who blinks rapidly at his movement. “I would live in your service as a vassal and do what you willed, provided it will not kill me nor give Locksley grief.”

“I’ve never had a vassal before,” the Dark One says, vaguely fascinated, “not in any official capacity, at least. How many years would you wish for this agreement?”

Roland hesitates once more. He wants his mother to live a long and healthy life – but the Dark One is not the true way to do that. He has seven years until he could potentially ascend to a Lordly disposition, though his own terms dictated some time for his mother to advise him…

“Ten years,” he eventually says. “With leeway on the latter three. I personally would owe you something of a small favour for relinquishing me then, if that pleases you.”

“Your terms are agreeable,” the Dark One says after a moment, sitting up again, “though I dislike the term ‘small favour’. Give me an example of a small favour.”

“Well…if you were searching for someone or something, I could use my power as Lord of Locksley to find them or it, if it were in mine or my neighbours’ provinces,” Roland offers.

“Political connections…and if you die? Do you have an heir who would owe me such a ‘small favour’?” the Dark One queries.

“While I have no heir myself, my family have been in power in Locksley for generations – my uncle may not like it, but he understands the concept of debt and my cousin has been raised the same way. They would take it on.”

“And if they die?”

“Then…then the wages of a mercenary for three years of service from Locksley’s coffers should be yours by right,” Roland struggles, knowing not of the status of Locksley’s coffers – not when he has been away so long and even then, not when he has not done even practice bookkeeping since he was eight.

“…deal!” the Dark One exclaims, hand rising to produce a contract from nowhere, a scroll unfurling. A foot of curling, inky calligraphy greets him and Roland peers at it. “Signature, Sir Roland?”

“May I?” Roland requests to see the paper, wary of signing anything he has not read. “I trust there is a provision, should I die in your service?”

“Compensation shall be granted,” the Dark One assures, granting him the contract.

Roland takes some time to read through it, making mental notes when parts worry him. The part about his mother is the clearest, though he is happy that poisoning is included in his description of ‘maladies’ without his prompting. It almost makes up for the fact that the three-years-for-a-favour part of his debt would still transfer to his family, should he die.

“I suppose I can’t change your mind about this part,” he sighs, pointing it out.

“These are my terms,” the Dark One replies chipperly, flourishing a quill in his direction. Roland takes it from him, fiddling with the soft red feather before resting the contract on his lap.

Then, he signs.

* * *

“My silly boy,” his mother says, when he returns to tell his tale. Robin cannot bring himself to regret a single moment, not when her eyes shine so brightly in comparison to the former, ever-present dim of sickness. “You should not have.”

“But I did, Mother,” Roland says and he is proud. “I am not ashamed. Our contract is agreeable and for ten years, you will never fall or be crippled by ill health. In return, I have sworn myself for seven years.”

“Seven years,” Barbara, Lady of Locksley, whispers his words back to him. “Oh, my darling, you are a kind son and one day, you will be an even kinder Lord.”

“Thank-you, I’m sure you’ll make me proud,” he smiles at her and she tweaks his nose, the one he inherited from her that still looks as out of place on his face as it did in childhood. In return, he kisses her cheek – he inherited his father’s stature, after all and his mother is  _tall_.

Roland leaves Locksley again soon after, the Dark One sending him a letter that appears on his pillow before he goes to bed. He goes to Avonlea where ogres are troubling the locals and helps a brigade to the North when they assault a city, scouting their defences on the Dark One’s behalf. He thinks it is a test and is right to – the Dark One dismisses his report when he brings it, instead telling him a wild tale of a mythical boar that can be found in the far south, only a little north of the east end of the Fishermen’s Kingdom.

“By your leave, milord,” Roland bows. “My timeframe?”

“The boar is an archetypal monster – it’ll reform in the same place over and over, until a hunter does the correct rites,” the Dark One smiles and Roland knows this is his chance to prove himself.

“May I consult your library to find out what these rites are?”

“You may – but wash your hands first,” he pauses, “or maybe just  _wash._  Travel makes humans disgusting. There’s a room across the hall you can appropriate, when you’re here, instead of camping in my gardens.”

Flushing, Roland bows once more, thanking him for his generosity.

_I have a library to consult and a bath to be had._

* * *

 

He struggles, of course. Roland has no idea how the library is organised and it takes him the whole day to realise he’s in the section dedicated to fiction. It takes another day to find the section about creatures.

Then, there is…the difficulty reading. Roland is ashamed to admit he struggles, remembering being taught his letters and numbers by the household priest as a boy. It’s all the more complicated reading books meant for adults, the complex words rearranging themselves in front of his eyes, forcing himself to read aloud so he isn’t processing the sentence wrong.

 _At least I am not simply an idiot,_  Roland thinks to himself, perusing a text in Low Southern. He was lucky to be born into his household and now, the benefits show themselves – Roland knows that many common folk are unacquainted with more than their local language and Common Northern. As a Locksley with a mother from Midas’ kingdom, Roland can speak three separate tongues and two more dialects of the same. Travelling as a wandering bow after his knighting did well to keep his fluency.

The book he reads from talks of many magical beasts. It is only when he pauses over a certain turn of phrase –  _bestia magica_ instead of _bestia mitica,_ magical beast versus mythical beast, the latter of which he is actually looking for – that Robin remembers that the Dark One had given him more information than just the word  _mythical_.

“Archetypal monster,” the words drag over his tongue and he wonders what it really means, in this context. He endeavours to find out – by confronting the very person who gave him his quest.

The Dark One is spinning when he greets him, giving him barely more than a mumble in greeting. Clearly deep in thought, Roland decides to wait, sitting down at the dining table; but luck truly must be on his side, because the Dark One turns to face him barely five minutes later.

“What have you discovered?”

“I’m seeking knowledge, still, just deciding to go to a different source,” Roland replies cheerily, smiling. “You mentioned early that the boar was an ‘archetypal monster’. What did you mean by that?”

“Clever boy,” the Dark One bares his teeth in a grin. “Archetypal monsters belong to other realms to ours. They are unique or otherwise maligned creatures and forces, twisted by divine powers. Usually, they are neither good nor evil – but the only way to purge them from existence is to slay them. As archetypal monsters, however, they reform after some time.”

“How long?” Roland questions.

“Anything from a day to a thousand years,” the Dark One waves it off. “The boar itself is of Aetolia, a region from another realm sat parallel to us, rather than beside. I keep an eye on anomalies like that – where monsters live, their rightful hunters follow. I have exactly  _two_  books that reference such a land, but I doubt you could read them.”

“Why?” Roland straightens, “I’m learned.”

“Not in this language,” the Dark One shakes his head, before pausing, “Unless you suddenly read  _Elliniká_.”

“Midas’  _Elliniká?_ ” Robin queries, feeling smug. The Dark One eyes him curiously, nodding. “You know, they call it the Goldtongue in Locksley, for Midas’ golden touch. When my mother married my father, a percentage of my grandparents’ townspeople went with her. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone there who didn’t know a single word of it.”

“…oh,” the Dark One wrinkles his nose, pouting like a child as he points at Roland. “Do you withhold information like this from your mother?”

“No, but you aren’t my mother, Dark One,” Roland replies clearly, before tilting his head in apology. “No offence meant, milord. It just hadn’t come up before now.”

The Dark One remains pouting for a few moments, then returns to his relaxed mood of earlier and continues lecturing. “The Aetolian Boar requires its trophy to be given to the only female in the band of hunters going after it. Archetypal monsters require the same sort of… _story_ ,” the Dark One’s expression twists, as if something amuses him, “to be wholly vanquished.”

“A woman hunting among men?” Roland considers the concept in interest, “A dangerous thing to do, when men oft drink and make merry.”

“Mayhaps, though one could say it is the responsibility of the men to keep to themselves and vice-versa,” the Dark One adds.

“…of course,” Roland murmurs, feeling a new form of guilt wiggle into his chest. He thinks of his own words.  _A dangerous thing_ , he had called it.  _I accept what horrible things could happen without thinking of the impact._  It disturbs him that he could think that way, even for a moment.

The Dark One looks at him like he knows what he’s thinking, but stays silent on the matter. With a snap of his fingers, two books appear on the table by Roland’s arm.

“When you’re finished with them, set them on the fireplace mantle,” the Dark One instructs. “Then head south. You’re young yet and I don’t put my deal-breakers in the hands of others – but with time and a better reputation, I can make something else of you, something I can use.”

“Use?” Roland frowns.

“Yes, use. I’ve already said you’re clever. I won’t pretend it is otherwise.” The Dark One looks deep into his eyes – reptilian pupils swallowing the dim firelight as Roland struggles not to shiver in apprehension. “You will be someone, some day. The future is ever-changing, but you’re stuck on a path, now. There are certain roads which you may decide to take which entwine with my own endeavours and if you do, trust that I will use you to my benefit and most definitely, my own alone. I do you courtesy by including both yourself and Locksley in that from time to time, but it is  _not_  a requirement when I make decisions.”

Mouth dry, Roland barely mumbles the words, “Yes, milord.”

“It’s good you understand, Sir Roland. Kill the boar, give the trophy to Atalanta, then return here – I will have another quest for you to take when you do. You have seven turns of the moon.”

Roland stands on shaky legs, takes the books, then flees the dining room.

* * *

Atalanta is a vision and the epitome of  _huntress_.

When Roland first laid eyes on her, he was struck dumb, as were many of the party in the tavern. She wore trousers –  _a woman in trousers!_  – and ringlets of raven-coloured hair framed her heart-shaped face, the olive of her skin making her all the more alluring for its strangeness. Roland watched all evening as she deftly fended off the men who thought her to be some kind of prostitute and then, the next morning when he saw her in the stables tending to her horse, bow and arrows slung over her satchel, he asked her if her aim was true.

Six days later, Roland thinks in amusement of how he doubted her, even for a second. Single-handedly, she has decimated the local rabbit population, graciously leaving the deer to the rest of the hunting party.

“The cave is close, now,” Atalanta notes, seeing the approaching mountain in the distance. Roland sits astride his horse, next to her steed’s flank. “Taliesin and his friends have disappeared.”

“No doubt, to foolishly try hunting the boar alone,” Roland shakes his head. “You should not have bet so – they will get themselves gored trying to kill it before you.”

Atalanta glances at him with dark eyes, “If they do, it is no fault of mine. You would blame their deaths on my arrogance?”

“You twist my words!” Roland exclaims, dismayed, “No, my lady! I would blame it on their own ego and it would be the truth. The boar is said to be as big as a cow and angrier than a bull – Taliesin and his friends are three among a dozen and he should have waited.”

Atalanta nods, but something else has stirred her interest past him. Her eyes widen. “Roland!”

Roland barely has time to turn his head before the Aetolian Boar lets out a piggish cry, more a roar than a squeal. It rushes towards them and Atalanta hauls him backwards off his horse as the boar crashes into their mounts, horns digging deep and knocking them both over.

“The Boar!”

“Bows! Spears! Get your weapons out, lads-”

“By the White Throne, it’s bigger than a bear!”

“Roland?” Atalanta addresses him, making sure he’s alright. Roland, having hit the ground hard, sucks in a painful breath and is immediately made aware that at least two of his ribs are hurt from their crash. Atalanta is quick to pull him up and away, while simultaneously throwing an arrow in the eye of the monstrous boar.

“First blood, men!” she shouts as the pig squeals, Roland staggering to hide behind a tree as the boar gets its bearings. Atalanta becomes focused on the boar and Roland breathes in a shuddery breath before readying his weapons.

His bow, replaced many times over the years, is strong enough to kill even this boar if he pierces it through the heart and lungs – it has killed an ogre before, when he used a hard enough arrow to shoot it through the eye. The larger matter here is distance – and of course, the competition. The joy of the fight flows through his veins and Roland can feel himself grinning, lips tugging against his teeth.

Locating the boar’s current position – rushing headlong towards one of the older hunters in the party – Roland trains his bow, letting off a distraction shot on it’s hind to get it to turn. The boar is rampaging and the spears half the party brought will be useless unless they can get it cornered; in forestland, that’s unlikely.

Unfortunately, his tactic only works after three men are trampled and bleeding; and more than one aspiring hunter attempts to shoot it as he does when it twists. But the timing is all wrong and even Roland, with his quick aim and sharp shooting, is unable to shoot it exactly right.

The Boar squeals, then charges in his direction.

Its speed is ridiculous and once again, it is Atalanta who saves him, the woman quick-footed and smart enough to anticipate the boar’s destination. Robin feels the wind whistling as she spins him out of the way and there’s a sting across his chest, the bulbous tusks tearing through his cloth overshirt.

“Thank-you!” he manages to burst out, before he shoots once more at the boar, barely thinking as he lines up his target and fires.

Robin does not expect the boar to stumble over its own feet or for the arrow to pierce its heart.

Frozen, he stands there as the party yells in victory, the hunters with boar-spears approaching swiftly to dig their weapons into its neck, assuring its death. One boy even starts the laborious process to cut through its spine.

“A well-shot arrow, my friend,” Atalanta puts a hand on his shoulder, a steady presence as Roland blinks in shock. “Only one man of the party for certain is dead, so far.”

“So far,” Roland turns back to look at the trampled hunters, but they’re being tended to, half-dragged away from the path the boar might have taken again in an attempt to kill them. A man Roland’s age weeps over the dead man – Roland thinks they are father and son, but he isn’t sure.

Just then, Taliesin and his companions rush into the area, eyes darting back and forth between the boar, the injured and the dead.

“Taliesin! You missed the fun!” Atalanta greets him, clearly baiting the man. His eyes flash and he takes a step forwards in a menacing manner, but Atalanta fears none – Roland is very sure she did not fear the boar, either. “Sir Roland shot the killing blow, so your gold is safe.”

“I wouldn’t have given it to you anyway,” snaps Taliesin’s companion, the one Roland thinks is called Phandros.

“Atalanta drew first blood, though,” Roland argues on her behalf, gesturing to the boar, “and even took its eye. Your bet has not fallen through – only become undecided.”

“I’m sure we can come to a compromise,” Atalanta smirks. “Or you could apologise to me for your unnecessary comments and I’ll consider the debt moot.”

Phandros looks about to attack Atalanta in that moment, but the hunters tending to the deceased boar let out cries of alarm. Roland turns around, able to catch the few seconds it takes for the boar to deflate, golden dust swirling around its corpse. Immediately, the space it takes up is less and even the blood is gone. All that is left it the hide and the head with those almighty tusks, still stained red.

“Your trophy, Sir Roland,” Atalanta says, voice loud in the quiet that follows the magical display. Roland glances at her and that ethereal beauty is even more pronounced than before.

“My lady,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of her. “You saved my life today, twice. I would not have killed the boar, if you had not spared me the unknown of death. The trophy is yours, in tribute.”

Atalanta’s smile is both blinding in its beauty as it is in its ferocity.

“Your name will be remembered in my annals and the Aetolian Boar’s head once more mounted on my wall,” she says, “Gods be praised, you might live to hunt another day, Sir Roland.”

Roland stands, her words appreciated but taken with a grain of salt. Atalanta is no mere human – he can see that now, her aura changed. A quest is over and Atalanta knows it; but Roland is  _clever_ , as the Dark One likes to say.

Her words sound like a warning.

* * *

Phandros and his friend, Damascus, attack him later that night in anger. They’ve been drinking and Roland has not, taking Atalanta’s words to heart. He ducks and weaves – Phandros falls on his own dagger and Damascus trips backwards after a kick to the chest, falling down the stairs and snapping his neck. Roland stays to tell the town watch what happened and he is lucky –  _so_  lucky – that they decide to let the matter go with only a fine to pay to the tavern-keeper for the broken furniture and a move-on order.

Then, his chest starts to ache.

Roland thinks it’s nothing, until it doesn’t stop – until it worsens and Taliesin is snarling at him in his dreams for killing his nephews. There is a fire burning between them that will devour the both of them, a magic from another realm that Roland does not know how to prevent.

“You will burn and die for your deeds, Roland Locksley,” Taliesin says, distraught from grief. Robin almost feels bad for the deaths, until he once more spies the fire burning between them and feels the magic ache through his blood.

“Dark One,” he pleads to the nighttime air, exhausted and in pain, his horse nearly run into the ground. “Dark One, please, hear me. Help me. Taliesin the Hunter has tied a burning log between us and the fire is eating me alive. Please, Dark One,  _please-_ ”

There is a sucking feeling and the sensation of weightlessness, before he appears in the Dark Castle, on the floor before a brewing station. The Tower where the Dark One creates potions and researches ancient magic is far more alive than any other part of his home – blue lights in bottles illuminate the room and sunlight shines through the only open, uncovered window on the property.

“Now  _that_  is nasty,” the Dark One agrees, peering at him curiously. “Does it hurt?”

“Does- yes, yes, it hurts,” Roland swallows. “Dark One, can you help me?”

“I can, but  _will_  I?” The Dark One pauses and for several seconds, Roland despairs, wondering what sort of deal he will have to make when he is in such  _agony_. “Yes. You’re an investment and the magic protecting your mother is paltry. You’re much more useful to me alive.”

The Dark One steps closer to him, crouching in front of where he sits on the floor. Those hands of his, with tiny green scales and dark, clawed nails look so much smaller up close. They twitch – dexterous limbs aching to be used. The press against Robin’s heart and Robin shudders as they sink into his chest, pulling out his heart.

“How pretty, how  _good_ ,” the Dark One giggles, handling the pink organ in his hands so very gently.

Roland stares at it in shock, the agony gone but a new sensation replacing it – the feeling of his heart being touched. Every digit presses against the muscle that beats with his pulse and the scales are an unfamiliar texture that makes it race. A claw draws down the side and the Dark One turns the heart so he can see the other side, where an orange-scarlet scar is spreading, slowly.

“It’s a curse, one I will remove promptly if you allow me to endanger you unnecessarily,” he says quickly. “Our contract was very strict about deliberately placing you in life-threatening situations.”

“I- what-” Roland can’t speak, eyes still locked on his cursed heart.

The Dark One snaps his fingers in front of his eyes, gaining his attention. “Sir Roland,” he enunciates slowly, “this is a deal. A cured heart for a one-time addendum to your contract.”

“What kind of situation?” Roland asks, after a long moment.

“I need you to give me a full report, after you return. It involves crossing the barriers between worlds and is extremely experimental,” the Dark One pauses, “but it will work, nonetheless. I just don’t really want to try it myself, in case I get stuck.”

“‘Stuck’,” Roland repeats.

“Yes,  _stuck_ , Robin,” the Dark One repeats irritably. Roland’s brow creases.

“Robin?”

“Yes, yes, Robin Hood, all that nonsense,” the Dark One waves it off, shaking his head, “It’s in your future. Ignore it. I need a reliable test subject and you need your heart fixed. Do we have a deal?”

“…I could get stuck,” Roland says, unable to be moved from that topic anymore. The Dark One has said things before that made it sound like he could see the future – if he’s a seer, then this ‘Robin’ business really  _can_  be ignored, for now. “What would happen?”

The Dark One scowls. “Compensation.”

Roland thinks about it, pulse slowing. His heart is still in the Dark One’s hand, glowing gently, with that unnatural orange scar minutely expanding minute by minute. Rubbing at his chest, glad not to feel the ache of Taliesin’s curse, Robin nods.

_My cousin is a good girl and whether or not my uncle ends up ruling before she does, she will be a good Lady one day. Locksley is in safe hands._

“I agree.”

“ _Excellent,_ ” the Dark One hisses, black tongue trapped between his teeth for a moment before he drives his nails into the orange scar on Robin’s heart and  _pulls._

Robin screams.

* * *

“It will be strange. The people there will not accept you as you are – they will think you mad if you tell them your true history,” the Dark One prowls, walking circles around the chalk diagram on the floor. “The Land Without Magic will not like your presence there, either. It could destabilise your being in an attempt to draw out the magic in your blood. It could try to devour you – or it might ignore you completely and dismiss your attempts to make any sort of mark on the world.”

“How could a realm devour me?” Roland questions.

“The kind of explanation needed to understand  _how_ is beyond your comprehension,” the Dark One informs him, before rubbing his hands together nervously. “Time passes differently in this realm. The way you are travelling there is untested and new, so while I might send you off now, there may be a lapse between our experiences.”

“When you say ‘lapse’…”

“What could be a week for you might be an hour for me,” the Dark One replies, “I at least am aware of which way it operates. You will be there longer than however much time I take to send and return you. How much? Meh. But rest assured – you will be there longer than you think.”

“Alright,” Roland murmurs, straightening his shirt. “How will I know when you’re taking me back?”

“A portal will appear that only you can pass through,” the Dark One says. “I’ve keyed this version to you, for better retrieval. Don’t make friends while you’re there, or make any lasting impressions.”

Roland nods staunchly, but there’s still a trickle of worry there, like cold water down his spine. “Dark One? What- what if I  _do_  get stuck? How do I know the portal will come? You said time will pass faster in this ‘Land Without Magic’, but what if  _years_  pass? You can’t expect me to live as a nomad forever.”

“That,” the Dark One points at his chest, where Roland is marked with brown paint. It’s a magical mark, one he can see copied four more times within the banded circle surrounding the diagram. “That is your link. If that brand fades, you will know you are lost. If it does not, then you’ll know I still have you tethered here, in the Enchanted Forest.”

Roland’s heartbeat doubles. “But- but  _how long_ , Dark One?”

“Dark One this, Dark One that,” the Dark One natters to himself, shaking his head. He peers at Roland, before summoning a wavy silver dagger to hand. In the dim light, Roland can barely make out the engraved letters, but he cannot read the word – it is too long and too complex for him to process right off the bat.

“Roland, it has been a genuine pleasure,” the magician says, before bowing low, as if were a king instead of less than a lord. “I am not  _good_ , but neither am I evil. I am dark and twisted; but even the Darkness that inhabits me sees the benefit in having an ally who is  _good_. I have attempted that and you have not shown me scorn, as of yet. I think I have succeeded in my efforts to make you something, Roland.”

The Dark One ponders him, eyes neither unblinking nor unnaturally sharp. Roland does not feel like a piece of meat at a butchers – nay, he feels important; but that does not stop him from focusing on the one question the Dark One has failed to answer.

“How long, Dark One?” Roland whispers, desperate.

The Dark One meets his gaze.

“My name is Rumplestiltskin and yours will be Robin Hood, one day. Remember that, regardless of what will come to be. Your path is your own and so are your choices. The brand will burn with magic a day before the portal will arrive to draw you home.” The Dark One,  _Rumplestiltskin_ , kneels then and uses the dagger like a magic wand. Streams of Darkness, slick like oil and oozing with menace swirl through the air, mapping the lines of the diagram until the white of the chalk is no longer visible.

“Good luck,” he thinks he hears Rumplestiltskin whisper.

For a moment, the Darkness ripples there, in place above the chalk lines. Then, the Dark One is blown back as shadow explodes around them and Roland feels an almighty  _shove_  and a pressing need to find someone – to reunite with  _his, mine, my boy, oh my son-_

His knees meet soft dirt and Roland tumbles onto grass, the strands tickling his hands and nose as he shudders, breathing in deeply.

“What the hell?”

The voice does not startle him as much as it could have, as Roland is still gaining his bearings. He blinks as sunlight streams across his eyes- no, not sunlight. It is a lantern of some kind, held in the hand of a woman with blonde curls to her elbows. He sees the trousers first and does not have the presence of his mind to hold his tongue.

“Atalanta?” Roland questions, before frowning at his own words.  _This is not Atalanta – but women must wear trousers here._

“You’re- you’re from Atlanta?” the woman sounds as confused as he is. “Dude, we’re in Tallahassee.”

“Talla-what?”

The woman moves closer and Roland carefully sits up on his haunches, wary as she is. Her brow furrows as she gets a clearer view of him.

“Are you trying to get to a ren-faire?”

“I don’t know what a ren-faire is,” Roland freely admits, wincing at the twinge from his ribs – they’re healed from the boar hunt, now, but this new fall has definitely done something along the same lines. “Who are you?”

“…my name’s Emma. Emma Swan. Who are you?” asks the woman- asks  _Emma_ , who wears blue trousers that  _still_  baffle him and holds her lantern in a white-knuckled grip Roland can see, even in shadow. His thoughts revolve around what the Dark One said to him, just before – of his name being  _Robin_ one day.

 _That day might as well be today,_  Roland thinks, before sketching a bow.

“Robin, milady,” he states, giving her a new, small smile like his new, ordinary name. “My name is Robin Hood.”

**Author's Note:**

> set fourteen/thirteen years before the Dark Curse is cast. this will eventually be an Emma/Regina/Robin fic series, with our favourite baby hobbit set slap bam in the middle. no Marian bashing (i think i'm going to improve her. a lot.)


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